Not always, most of the time, I hear your voice by the persimmon tree
some echo of what was, what cannot be.
I am here, no longer here. The waiting is over…
And although these comings may be frequent
you should know, they mean nothing anymore.
Even the last of the persimmon has fallen
the geese nosing the fruit with fragile beaks.
I cry, such stupid sentimentality me,
to think that just once you echoed me;
what never was can never be –
Not love, not with me.